Overload
by JustSaraNoH
Summary: Phil Coulson must accept a problem that he cannot fix. Second multi-chapter story in my series referred to as the Nadiaverse.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES:** This is the second story in the fic timeline I refer to as Nadiaverse. The first story is Wishes and Nightmares, but you don't have to read that one to understand what's happening here. This will be updated on Wednesdays.

**DISCLAIMER:** I am poor, these characters (with the exception of Nadia Rogers) aren't mine, please don't sue.

* * *

Phil Coulson was ordered to retreat to the Helicarrier. The villain of the day decided to use sonic waves to induce aggression in anyone within weapon's range, and within said range was the team of superheroes known as The Avengers.

The sonic waves were created with the hope of causing the heroes to turn on one another. If the Avengers took each other out, it would be one less thing for the evil scientist to deal with before conquering the world—or at least Phil assumed.

He was originally on the ground, just a block away from the action. He coordinated civilian evacuation using SHIELD support agents, and monitored the Initiative's progress all from a street corner. Jasper was at his side, seamlessly carrying out Phil's orders like he had for years. And that's when Phil knew something was wrong—when he possessed the overwhelming urge to choke the life out of his longtime friend and co-worker. From the rage darkening Jasper's eyes, the feeling was apparently mutual.

Things happened quickly after that, as they always did. Phil came to his senses long enough to figure out what was occurring around him. He called it in to Fury, who was keeping an eye on developments from the Helicarrier, and the Director ordered everyone save the superheroes to evacuate.

Then, things got worse.

JARVIS overheard Coulson's assessment on the aggression-inducing sonic waves and deduced that Stark's sudden targeting of Thor instead of the mad scientist bent on world domination was not a good idea. The artificial intelligence quickly put the Iron Man armor in some sort of standby mode to keep its designer from committing friendly fire.

Hulk, already fueled by anger, began to smash heavy fists down on anyone around him. Thankfully the rest of the team was quick enough to avoid the attacks, and the immobile Stark was far enough away to remain safe.

Thor and Rogers were fighting hand to hand. The only good thing that came of that was the realization that whenever Mjolnir was struck against Cap's vibranium shield, both men were able to have a moment of clarity and rise above the haze of their tempers. But as soon as the clanging sound dissipated, they were right back at each other's throats.

Phil keyed that particular bit of information into the computer terminal he sat at onboard the Helicarrier, and the databanks spat out a solution to their problems. "Hawkeye, do you read?" he called out on the comms.

It took another beating of the Asgardian hammer against Cap's shield for Clint to register his handler's voice. "Sonic arrows," Phil ordered quickly. "If you activate one and keep it close, you can take him down. Can you make the shot?"

"I'm hurt you even have to ask," Clint retorted.

"Fire the sonic first at—" Phil was cut off as his comm squelched from an overload of noise on Clint's end. The senior agent kept his eyes glued to the monitors in front of him that showed vitals for the team. Jasper shouted behind him that the target was down, and Phil drew relief at the words until the comm chatter began to focus on the man who took the shot.

Natasha called in a medevac as Phil stared at the screens in front of him to try and figure out what went wrong and why Clint's vitals had spiked before he passed out. Phil began to question the team members, but they were too lost in the effects of the sonic waves to remember what happened. And once the fog of anger lifted, their focus shifted to securing the scientist who'd caused the mess in the first place.

Phil snapped off a round of orders that initiated the clean up process and kept people busy enough so he could sneak down to medical. He got there just in time to see Clint on a gurney being wheeled back to an exam room; he was unconscious, and there was a line of dried blood running from his ear to down his neck.

Stark was still armored and on the ground. JARVIS had returned control of the suit once the threat was neutralized, and at the moment, Tony was trying to calm Hulk down enough for Banner to reemerge. From the sounds of the yells Phil heard on the Bluetooth fixed in his ear, it was going to be a while.

The remainder of the team—Rogers, Romanoff, and Thor—were also being examined. Phil noticed all three of them were cringing as medical staff inspected their ears. Thor waved the nurses off, nearly knocking one of them off her feet, and stalked away muttering words Phil couldn't quite catch since they were in an unfamiliar tongue.

"What happened down there?" he asked Natasha.

"You'll have to speak up," Cap requested. "Hard to hear you over the ringing."

"What happened?" Phil repeated, raising his voice.

"Barton set off a sonic arrow," Natasha answered. "It counteracted the effect of the weapon long enough for him to take the shot. He barely got it off before he passed out."

"What do you mean 'set it off?'" Phil demanded. "I told him to fire the sonic arrow at the target first, and then take him down."

Natasha shared a look of confusion with her husband before turning back at Phil. "That's not what happened."

"He had the thing in his mouth," Rogers elaborated.

"What?" Phil asked as his stomach dropped.

"The sonic arrowhead," Natasha clarified. "He didn't fire it; he held it in the corner of his mouth while he made the shot."

Immediately, the specs of the purpose and power of Clint's sonic arrowhead filtered through Phil's mind; there wasn't a single bit of information that was promising.

He heard someone clear their throat behind him. "Agent Coulson?" Phil turned to see Doctor Panetta, a veteran SHIELD medic, hovering in the doorway.

The look on the older man's face was all Phil needed to see, but still he had to ask.

"He's deaf, isn't he?"


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTES:** I don't anyone who has suffered from traumatic hearing loss. Any mistakes made in that area are solely mine for insufficient research.

* * *

Doctor Panetta, a veteran SHIELD medic, shook his head at Phil's question. "Agent Barton is not completely deaf, but he did suffer some damage."

"How bad?" Phil pressed.

The physician shrugged. "We'll need a few days to see what's temporary and what's permanent. At the moment, he's lost eighty percent in each ear, but that number could improve."

"To zero?" The way the doctor's lips pursed was all the answer Phil needed. "Is he awake?"

"Not yet," Panetta replied. "He took a couple hits to the head before setting off the sonic arrow. Combining those injuries with the sensory overload from the arrowhead is going to leave him knocked out overnight, probably."

"Concussion?"

"It's Barton—of course he's concussed. We're keeping a close eye on him, Agent Coulson," the doctor reassured. "Just wanted to give you a head's up on the preliminary scans. I'll check in with you again in a few hours. Your asset is down the corridor and to your right when you're finished here."

Phil nodded his thanks but made no move toward the tiny patient's quarters assigned to Clint. Instead, the majority of his mind continued to replay the comms conversation he'd shared with the archer during the climax of the battle as he tried to parse out whether or not he'd given an incorrect order.

"Sorry," Natasha apologized behind him. Phil turned back toward her and Cap as they sat on their exam beds. "Pretty sure I'm the source of the blows Clint took to the head. But for once, they weren't on purpose."

He nodded, his usual dry quip dying on his tongue. "Once you two are cleared, go home. We'll save the debrief for tomorrow once we know how everyone's fairing."

"I can keep an eye on Tony trying to calm down The Other Guy if you want," Steve offered. "I'm sure you'd rather have one less thing on your plate right now."

Phil mulled over the proposition and reluctantly agreed; as much as the distraction would be welcome, he needed to focus on the greater task at hand. Leaving the two of them behind, he made his way per Panetta's directions to the small quarters down the hall.

The room was barely big enough to contain both men. Clint appeared to be sleeping peacefully, but Phil knew that appearances, especially when the archer was involved, could be deceiving. He was still in his tactical gear from the fight, which Phil considered changing him out of. But past experience reminded Phil that Clint wasn't a big fan of someone changing his clothes for him without permission. And Phil was also all too familiar with the fact that it was best to leave Clint's boots on his feet so as not to asphyxiate oneself with foul odor.

The handler double-checked the bank of monitors hanging above Clint's head. Seeing that nothing was too far out of the ordinary, Phil settled himself into the metal chair bolted to the floor against the opposite wall. He loosened his tie and pulled his phone out of his pocket. If he was going to be here a while, he could at least put a dent in his email inbox.

An hour after he'd settled into his spot of watching over Clint, the door to the room hissed open and Fury stuck his head in. The Director hooked a thumb out into the corridor, causing Phil to stand from his chair and walk out of medical quarters. He followed his boss down a maze of halls until they wound up in a secure and empty conference room.

"What's his condition?" Fury asked as he sank into one of the swiveling chairs.

"Concussion, the usual array of bruises and lacerations." Fury quirked an eyebrow at him until Phil gave up the last bit of information. "At the moment, eighty percent loss of hearing in both ears."

The director released a displeased sigh and shook his head. "I can't use a deaf sniper. You know that."

Phil did. He knew it as soon as Rogers'd told him that Clint had made the shot with the sonic arrowhead hanging from his mouth. He knew what the consequences would be, including Clint getting his field status revoked. SHIELD would of course be willing to keep him on at a desk job, but Phil knew that Clint wouldn't last long in that position. He was built for action and taking orders, not sitting still and dressing in suit and tie until he retired.

"What about his place in the Initiative? I can understand your reluctance for solo missions, but what about when he's on a team?" Phil asked.

Fury cracked his knuckles while debating his answer. "You're going to have to show me you can make it work. I need to know I'm not exposing Barton or the others to further harm by doing something like that. Show me numbers, Phil."

The agent nodded. Whatever modicum of hope that blossomed from Fury's willingness to at least let Clint try and remain an Avenger was squashed in Phil's stomach when a file folder hit the table. Phil recognized it as soon as he saw it—it was the transcript from comm channels during the battle. "Page eighty-seven was flagged," Fury informed him before rising from his chair and leaving the room, black trenchcoat swirling ominously behind him.

Phil stared down at the file folder like it was a ticking time bomb, which, in a way, it was. Fury's warning about a section being flagged was a heads-up that the internal review board was more than likely going to have to examine what happened, especially since the events from the battle might cost SHIELD one of their Avengers.

He knew what he would find on the eighty-seventh page. Phil couldn't remember word-for-word the orders he'd issued, or maybe he could but didn't want to think about it. It sickened him to think he could be at fault for ruining Clint's career, and quite possibly his life.

They'd known each other for almost a decade, and lived together in a relationship Phil never thought could happen for a year-and-a-half. They still didn't know everything about each other since they lived in a world of secrets, but Phil certainly knew the other man well enough to know how badly this could go. He also knew that he had to be the one to tell Clint what happened to him; he just had no idea how to find the words.

Slowly, Phil reached down and picked up the file. He tucked in under his arm as he retraced his footsteps back to Clint's medical bunk. The archer was still unconscious when Phil returned. He removed his tie and jacket and draped them on the back of the metal visitor's chair. His stomach growled a reminder that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, but Phil ignored it. He dropped into the uncomfortable seat with a weary sigh, heels of his hands digging into his eyes. He waited for his vision to clear once more before opening the file and thumbing to the flagged page.

**P. Coulson:** _Hawkeye, do you read?_

**C. Barton:** _Copy._

**P. Coulson:** _Sonic arrows. If you activate one and keep it close, you can take him down. Can you make the shot?_

**C. Barton: **_I'm hurt you even have to ask._

**P. Coulson: **_Fire the sonic first at—_

Phil knew what the end of the sentence was: _a space between the two of you_. Close enough that it would disrupt the anger-inducing sonic waves yet far enough away to keep Clint out of relative harm. But he'd made the mistake of saying "keep it close" beforehand. He knew better, after years of giving orders, to be more specific—even if the asset receiving the order was the one person on the planet who knew you best.

He'd minced his words and this was the result. It was a rookie mistake, and he deserved whatever hearing or charges the internal investigations committee was going to charge him with.

Phil barely heard Natasha enter the room over the sound of the monitors hanging above Clint's bed and the noise of his own thoughts. His eyes flickered her way before settling back on to the transcript in his lap he'd been staring at for the last three hours. She'd showered and changed clothes since the last time he'd seen her. "You should be at home."

"I put Nadia to bed half-an-hour ago. Steve can handle things by himself for a while," she replied as she looked down at Clint and gently brushed some hair off his forehead. Since Phil occupied the lone chair, she settled herself on the foot of Clint's bed.

"How are you?" Phil asked.

She shrugged. "I can feel the bruises I'll have in the morning. Not quite sure where exactly they came from, but like that's anything new."

"Your hearing?"

"Medical signed off on both Steve and I. Tony and Bruce, too. We're fine. Still have a headache and sensitivity to eight-month-old, shrieking daughters who hate getting a bath, but time will fix one of those things."

"I thought she'd be over the bath thing by now."

"I think she's against being clean." She paused to look over at Clint. "I'm blaming you for that."

They lapsed into silence once more before Phil remembered the name she didn't mention. "What's Thor's status?"

"He never came back to be checked out. You know what kind of mood he gets sucked into whenever Jane's at a conference. The medical staff wasn't too inclined to wrangle him in for an ear exam. Are you?"

"I'd better," Phil sighed. "Don't want to give anyone more evidence against me." He hadn't realized he'd said the words out loud until he caught Natasha tilting her head and staring at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Not here."

Her eyes darted around the room as she took in what security measures could be embedded in the walls. She stayed quiet for a minute before asking, "Were you flagged?" He didn't answer, which was enough of a response for her. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"They have good reason," he told her, eyes locked on the eagle emblem emblazoned on the front of the file folder in his lap.

"You found the solution to putting a stop to what happened today."

"And I gave faulty orders in carrying that out."

"You gave the order that was necessary."

He shook his head as a bitter chuckle escaped him. "Necessary," he spat under his breath.

Phil felt Natasha's gaze flicker back and forth between him and Clint until it settled on him. "What aren't you telling me?"

He scratched the back of his neck while wording a reply in his head, something that could serve as practice for whenever Clint awoke. "His hearing—"

"Will recover."

He shook his head. "Not entirely."

"So? We'll work around it. Tony and Bruce can—"

"Tasha," he started, his handler tone of voice creeping into the conversation. "They're pulling his mission-eligible status."

She silently studied Clint before asking, "What about his place on the team?"

"Fury's undecided. He's willing to make it work if we can prove that having Clint there won't put him or the team in further danger."

Beeping from the monitors once again became the only noise in the room, and Phil found himself wondering what exactly Clint could and couldn't hear at the moment.

"It's not your fault," Natasha said quietly.

"What?" he asked as he tried to bring his thoughts back around to whatever she was trying to say.

"I've seen that look before—Brussels, Burmese jungle, Shanghai four years ago. You're blaming yourself for this."

"I gave the order, Tasha."

"Because it's your job to give the order. We know that." She paused to roll her head around, a sign that her headache was getting worse. "You remember what you told me when I signed on?"

"That if you turned on us, I'd personally put a bullet in you."

That at least brought a small smirk to her lips. "Other than that."

He sighed and let his head fall backwards against the bulkhead. "Natasha, I'm really not in the mood for you to ask me questions you're just going to answer yourself."

"You promised to bring us home." He cringed at her words and braced himself for the tongue-lashing she was probably setting up for. She kicked his foot so he'd look back up at her. "You said, 'I promise to always bring you home, but I can't promise that it will always be in one piece.'" He nodded at the memory; it was an oath he swore to nearly everyone who worked under him. "We knew what we were signing up for," she continued. "We knew the risks. You did your job, and so did he. You cannot blame yourself for this."

He let the words _watch me_ stay in his head for fear of the physical retaliation she would take out on him otherwise. They stayed in the comfortable silence that countless hours on missions and years of building trust allowed them. Shortly before midnight, he cleared his throat. "You should get back down to ground. Go be with your—" He stopped himself before he said _family,_ knowing that she still wasn't fully settled with that term.

"Call me if he wakes up or you need anything." She slid off the bed and brushed a quick kiss to Clint's cheek before slipping out the door.

Because he'd given an order.

He let his head fall backward again with a thud. His foot began restlessly tapping against the grated floor. Scenario after scenario played out in his mind as he prepared himself for any and all possible reactions Clint could have when he woke up. He pieced together speech after apology after fumbling words in an attempt to memorize what he would say. Not that it helped him when Clint actually regained consciousness four hours later.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTES: **Thanks as always to **the_wordbutler** for acting as my amazing beta.

* * *

Clint came to with a moan and immediately began his usual shtick of pulling monitors and leads off of his body. Phil, with practiced ease, swiped at his fingers so the nurse's station wouldn't think they'd just lost a patient. He knew the moment Clint truly started to wake, because the other man went still; slowly, calloused fingertips rose to touch his ears, but again, Phil grabbed hold of his fingers. This time he didn't let go.

It was the first physical contact he'd made with Clint since the battle started. He'd refrained all through the night because half of the walls in the cramped medical quarters on the Helicarrier were made of tempered glass and offered little to no privacy. That, and Phil didn't necessarily trust himself around Clint at the moment.

"Can you hear me?" Phil asked loudly. The panic that flooded Clint's eyes was enough of an answer. Phil adjusted his hold on the other man's hands so that Phil's left held both of Clint's. His thumb began to slowly sweep back and forth over familiar knuckles while he used the other hand to dig into his pocket for his cell phone.

He opened the app he routinely used to dictate notes for himself. Holding the microphone button, he spoke into the device so that his words would appear on the screen to show Clint. "You were injured when you used the sonic arrowhead in the fight." He paused and held the device so Clint could read it; Phil waited for a nod before he spoke the next sentence. "You have a concussion, as well as some other injuries."

"Ears," Clint replied after reading what Phil said.

Phil still didn't know what to say, but the lost expression on his face must've been enough because Clint's eyes slid shut, little lines of pain crinkling their outer edges. Phil squeezed Clint's hands, but it didn't earn him a response. So, on instinct, he reached up lightly slapped Clint on the cheek. It was a move he'd done before: in London when Clint'd tried to bleed out on him, in the ass-end of nowhere Northern Canada when Clint was hypothermic, in countless sparring matches when he thought Clint was letting his guard down too much, in many a late night when Clint'd fallen asleep on the couch in Phil's office.

What was an instinctual and typically playful ploy to engage the other man's attention caused Clint to physically rear his head back and Phil to be washed anew in guilt. He pulled his phone up to his mouth to speak a new note. "As of yesterday, your hearing loss was at eighty percent, but they think that could go down." Clint read the message with a stony expression. Not a single emotion flickered over his features as he absorbed the information. "Are you in pain?" Phil asked.

Clint shrugged. "Ringing is worse than anything," he answered loudly. Too loudly for the small room.

Movement in the corridor caught Phil's eye, and he watched Doctor Panetta come around the corner and walk through the door. He gave a nod to Phil before handing a piece of paper to Clint, which the doctor proceeded to read aloud. It detailed what happened to Clint since he was admitted yesterday afternoon: the hearing tests, the damage done to his ears, the severity of his concussion. Phil watched Clint's face for some sort of reaction, but there was nothing.

He didn't pay much attention to Doctor Panetta's words, which he probably should've since Clint more than likely wouldn't be able to hear the man. It was all in the notes on Clint's medical file; Phil could look it up if need be.

The medic said his piece and then left. Clint studied the paper the doctor had given him for a moment before once again disconnecting wires and sensors from his body and swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk to slowly stand. Phil reached out to grab his arm for support but could feel Clint tense at the contact, so he withdrew his fingers. "Where are you going?" he asked loudly. Clint answered by pointing to the bottom of Panetta's report which noted that he was released from medical care, but was on medical leave until further notice and had to report back in seventy-two hours for another hearing test.

Phil nodded and helped Clint gather his things. "I'll find us a pilot," he said as a test when Clint's back was turned. There was no reaction, not even the slightest flinch at Clint having his wings revoked even for the short trip from the Helicarrier to Stark Tower. Phil's jaw ground hard as that realization sunk in. He closed his eyes for a brief second and hoped to whoever would listen that this would be a temporary situation.

He swiped his phone's screen open and typed what he'd said into the window. He circled as wide around Clint as he could in the small room so as not to startle the other man and held out the screen. Again, the other man's face showed no emotion as he quickly read the words and gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.

It took two minutes for them to gather all of their belongings, seven for Phil to find a pilot to meet them at a Quinjet stashed in the Helicarrier hangar, ten minutes for pre-flight, and twelve to get back to the Tower. It was the longest flight in Phil's life.

This wasn't the usual ride back home filled with jokes, betting, and retellings of how the battle went. It wasn't a smooth ride because the pilot wasn't as talented as Clint. And, when they reached their destination, things would somehow pass some barrier into finality: the two of them would walk into their apartment and things would be completely different.

Or would they? They'd survived Phil dying and coming back to life. Well, mostly. From the few stories he'd been willing to listen to about Clint's state of being while Phil was recovering from Loki's attack, it sounded like the archer was as broken and beat up after the Battle of New York as Phil was.

They'd come back from that, and they'd only had a couple of dates before Loki'd shown up again. Now, they'd been living together since Phil's return a year and a half ago. They'd held each other up when they both thought they were going to lose Natasha to Loki's magic spell eight months ago. After enduring all of that, surely they could make it through this.

_Can you?_ a voice in Phil's head asked. _Can you really?_

He shoved down the doubts and braced himself both emotionally and physically for the landing. Once the Quinjet touched down on the pad on Stark Tower, Phil gave a nod to the pilot and climbed out of the craft after Clint. They'd both barely cleared the vehicle before it lifted off once more to make the return trip to the Helicarrier. Phil fought the instinct to cover his ears at the noise, part of him feeling it necessary to endure just a faint taste of what Clint would now live with.

Of course, it was possible that Clint could recover from this. They lived with two of the greatest minds science had ever seen; it was entirely feasible that this would be a temporary thing, another in a long list of nightmares and close calls that they'd endured over the ten years of working together.

Clint saw the shadow before Phil did, the turn of his head drawing Phil's attention. He followed the other man's line of sight just in time to see Natasha peel herself away from the wall just to the side of the door that led into the sole common floor they all shared. He wasn't surprised at her presence; she undoubtedly had multiple people set up a system of alerts to update her on Clint's progress and when he would return home.

Phil watched as she strode up to Clint, green eyes unblinking and taking in his frame. They both stopped when they were within a foot of each other. The stare-off continued for a minute longer, Natasha scrutinizing every bit of his face while Clint's chin lifted slightly in the air as a challenge. Her hand came up, and she flicked in him in his forehead with a red nail before brushing a fast kiss to each cheek. Clint's chin dropped to his chest and Phil's feet moved of their own accord to come up next to him. His hand came to rest on the other man's lower back and Phil propelled all three of them inside.

The trio made it to the elevator where Nat took point since her floor would come up before Clint and Phil's. It was also a convenience so she could say, "Call me if you need me," with her back to both of them and only let Phil know she was offering the assistance to do what Clint would undoubtedly classify as "babysitting."

The men entered their quarters and JARVIS turned the lights on halfway. Out of habit, Phil moved to the bedroom and began shedding his suit as he went. A quick glance at his watch told him it was a little after five in the morning. There really wasn't any point in trying to sleep, not that he was sure he could with his mind racing like it was, but he could at least work for a couple of hours in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

They quickly fell into their normal routine: Clint tucked his weapon and gear away neatly before stripping and heading for the shower, and Phil began to set up shop at the dining room table (even though he had an office in their quarters.) Just as he was going full tilt in writing up reports and filling out the necessary post-battle forms, he heard Clint pad out into the kitchen and start the coffee maker.

It almost felt normal. For just a second Phil could slip into the lie that the last twenty-four hours hadn't happened. His heart longed for Clint to stroll into the dining room humming some melody under his breath, place a mug at Phil's elbow, brush a kiss into Phil's hair, plop down in the seat next to him, swing his feet up on the table, and sip his coffee as he watched the sky lighten from a deep purple to bright pink with the sunrise.

Most of that was what happened a couple minutes later. Coffee was deposited on the table, Clint took the seat beside him, and they both slowly sipped down some much needed caffeine. But there was no contact, no ease in Clint's movements. He still stared out the window, but Phil knew from his face that he wasn't just taking in the sight of the city before them—Clint's mind was far away. He was tempted to reach over and stroke his arm or bump his knee or something, but Clint had done nothing but tense up whenever Phil touched him since waking, and the man was already wound so tight Phil was scared that any further contact would cause Clint to twist and fold in on himself like an imploding star.

Phil continued to tap away at his keyboard until a notification popped up that the team debrief was to start in an hour. He finished the paragraph he was on, quickly threw together an agenda for the meeting and sent that off, and drained his mug for the last drops of coffee he could get. The motion of him standing drew Clint out of whatever mental fog he'd gotten lost in, and he looked up at Phil with expectant blue-gray eyes. "Debrief," Phil explained loudly.

Clint nodded. "Need me?" he asked.

It wasn't at the right volume, too soft due to overcompensation. Phil shook his head. "Medical leave, remember? You get to skip out on the boring meetings." He wasn't sure how much Clint actually heard, but he must've caught the gist of it since he resumed his staring out at the wall of windows lining one side of their apartment. Phil turned and brushed his fingers along Clint's broad shoulders as he made a stop in the kitchen to refill his mug before heading off to the shower.

Under the hot spray of water, he tried to focus on what his schedule would be like and what all needed to be accomplished, but his mind wouldn't settle. Instead, it chose to break down every hard line on Clint's face. Phil shut off the water and quickly dressed. When he walked back out into the dining room, Clint hadn't moved. Phil gathered his needed files before pausing to look down at the top of Clint's head.

Already he was tired of the hesitation in his actions, but it didn't stop him from standing there for a moment while debating the best approach. Reaching into his pocket once more for his phone, he typed out, _I have to go. Need anything?_ He held the phone down close to Clint's face. A quick shake of the head was all the answer Phil received.

It pulled at his gut to see Clint like this. Rarely had the other man been this closed off in front of Phil, but every time he had, it centered around fear. Phil could easily understand the presence of that emotion since it was currently consuming his own mind.

He leaned down and placed a kiss into Clint's still-damp hair. Before straightening up, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of the smell of shampoo and the spiced scent of body wash. The only upside to Clint's current condition was it allowed Phil to whisper an apology into Clint's hair without fear of being overheard.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTES:** Bad news first-this story is going to switch to biweekly updates. Sorry to have to do that, but I'm not writing as much as I thought I would be a month ago, and my buffer is running extremely low. I don't want to rush words with this story, so I instead need to spread out updates.

* * *

Phil stepped off the elevator and on to the common floor. As usual, he was the first one in the conference room that was used for team debriefs when they were all meeting in Stark Tower. He walked around the table, depositing five folders in each team member's usual spot as he repeated the meeting's agenda in his head. The comfort associated with the normalcy of this pre-morning ritual calmed him, and he felt a light amount of tension seep out of his shoulders as he let routine take over and focused entirely on his day's schedule.

Bruce was the first one in the door, coffee and donut in hand. He gave Phil a small smile before taking his usual seat, wiping the excess powdered sugar off his fingers with his napkin, and flipping through the pages within his personal file folder. Thor followed a moment later. He nodded to Phil and joyously informed him and Bruce that Jane was to return later today. Steve and Natasha walked in a moment later; she apologized for not arriving sooner and Steve explained that he had to change his shirt since Nadia tried her best to get half her breakfast of some pureed baby food all down the front of him. Tony, per usual, was the last to enter. The billionaire quickly ended his phone conversation and told everyone that Pepper—away on business in London—said hello.

Phil gave one more headcount, because old habits were hard to let go of and even though it wasn't a mission, they were still his people. As was the normal routine, once he got everyone's attention, he reviewed step by step what happened in the battle. He walked through each minute, retelling the event and adding in background information and context that wasn't available in the moment when the fight took place.

He made it to the end, explaining how the sonic waves caused everyone to go into an angered rage and turn on one another, and paused. The break in his analysis wasn't one of any substantial length, but just enough that Phil knew if he looked up from the comm transcript in his hands, he'd find Natasha staring him down. He cleared his throat and talked through the orders that were given to Hawkeye—not Clint, that wasn't the name he could use right now—and how the archer successfully stopped the effects of the sonic waves so their enemy could be taken down.

It never sat well in Phil's stomach when a mission was called a success when it came at the cost of an asset.

Steve was the first to ask about Clint's condition. Phil knew the question was coming, and he wasn't the least bit surprised about who it came from. Even though the man was married to Natasha and had undoubtedly heard nearly every update she had, he was still the team's leader. And like Coulson, Cap had a habit of counting heads and making sure all of his ducks were in a row. Even if said ducks were Asgardian royalty and irradiated rage monsters.

"He's on medical leave for the time being," Phil answered. "He suffered a nasty concussion, which for him is a normal Tuesday, and it'll be a few days before the medical staff retests his hearing to see if it's improved any."

"What were the original readings?" Bruce asked.

"Eighty percent loss," Natasha answered.

Bruce turned to Tony, and Phil watched the silent conversation shared solely between their eyebrows that ensued. He was grateful that the men were already devising plans to help with the matter. Phil would've asked, but it looked like he wasn't going to have to put in that position.

A small voice tried to remind him that they were a family—a screwed up, dysfunctional, brood no doubt, but still family. And because of that he wouldn't have to be alone in helping Clint, even if he felt he needed to bear that burden on his own.

Phil asked if there were any more questions, which there weren't, and he dismissed them all to go about their day. As he gathered his things, he received an alert that Clint had clocked in on the range four floors down in Stark Tower. Phil had the system put in place that let him know whenever the archer began practice time so Phil could measure how long Clint pushed himself. Rarely did the other man follow the regulated limit of how much time could be spent on the range in a week.

Doctor Panetta hadn't restricted Clint from practicing his archery, and Phil was sure Clint needed the physical release of losing himself in shot after shot. He debated on how long to give him on the range and settled on three hours, setting up an alarm on his phone that was most likely unnecessary as a reminder.

Phil brushed off a lunch invitation from Steve and ignored more of Natasha's stares as he retreated to the office in his quarters. No one would think twice about him working from home. Even though he and Clint never made a show of their relationship—at least nothing beyond shoulder bumps and snarky chats on the comm, but that'd happened for years before they were together—everyone knew they were a couple. That was what happened when one worked for an intelligence agency: your life was no longer private. Your co-workers were the best intelligence assets the world had to offer and rarely saw the problem on spying on those around them.

Even though he had the excuse of wanting to keep an eye on Clint, it was apparently obvious to his co-workers and friends that Phil was hiding. He ignored texts from Jasper, Maria, and Pepper before silencing his phone and pushing away from his desk with a huff of frustrated air. He'd typed the same paragraph for twenty minutes now and he was more than likely going to have rewrite the entire report at this point.

Disgruntled, he checked the time and realized Clint had forty-five minutes remaining on the range before Phil was going to pull him off. In need of clearing his head, he left his work behind in his office and decided on a walk. His feet unsurprisingly led him to wander through the floor that served as a giant gym. He meandered around weight machines and boxing rings to make it to the back corner and the private elevator that was the main access route to the firing range one floor down.

He ambled down the hallway, remembering how this was where he first encountered Natasha and Clint upon his return from the dead. Guarding the door at the end of the corridor that led out to the range, it had been Natasha who greeted him with a pair of knives hurled at either side of his head. Clint, on another of his self-flagellation binges, had fired arrow after arrow until he nearly collapsed at Phil's feet, begging forgiveness. And this morning, Phil's knees fought the urge not to return the favor when he caught sight of Clint.

Phil slipped through the door and stood in the shadows as he kept his eyes on Clint. The other man wore a t-shirt, ratty pair of jeans, and boots. A quiver was slung low on his hip and in his hands was his favorite bow. There wasn't anything fancy about it, no scopes or sensors; just wood and string, as simple and pure as that type of weapon could be. Phil's brain fought not to make a metaphor between the bow and its owner because he knew Clint wasn't necessarily pure, and the word "simple" had a connotation to it that didn't feel right. Like the bow, Clint didn't possess anything that a stranger would attribute as special. He was, however, reliable, efficient, and well-worn.

Phil watched arrow after arrow fire downrange. Clint's accuracy hadn't suffered because of his injury, but it was obvious—to eyes that had watched the man for a decade, anyway—that more effort than necessary was required to keep up with the strain of moving targets and maintaining perfect aim. After a couple of hours, it wasn't surprising that Clint was sweating, but his breathing shouldn't have been as rapid as it was now. Phil watched the pulse point on the archer's neck beat out a quickened pace, something that was also out of sorts.

Phil waited until the quiver was empty. Stark had set up an automatic arrow retrieval system when he first built the range shortly after the Battle of New York two years ago. Clint, as was the case some days when he had a lot on his mind, had the system turned off this morning. Phil waited for him to start moving down range to collect his projectiles, but instead, he turned around. Despite not hearing him come in and Phil standing in the shadows, Clint's eyes knew exactly where to look. Phil stepped out of his dark corner and walked up to Clint, his eyes taking in the sight of him. He looked more like the lost young man who'd been passed off from agent to agent when Phil'd first joined SHIELD than the carefree person he shared his life with.

Clint's face was expectant as he waited for his next set of instructions. It was a display of trust that Phil wasn't sure he deserved anymore. Phil's mind once more battled with the choice of giving into physical contact, even if it ran the risk of being reciprocated with a flinch, but in this moment that was a danger he was willing to take. He walked over to Clint with measured steps until they were standing face to face; then, he wrapped a hand around the back of Clint's neck and pulled him in for a hug. The other man melted into the contact for just a moment before taking a step back.

"I'll get sweat on your suit," he explained.

Phil gave a small nod before jerking his head towards the door and leading them out of the practice range. His mind tried to wonder about anything other than when Clint would allow him to touch him again.

* * *

The next two days served as a major adjustment time for both of them. There was a lot of fumbling when it came to communication, something that neither of them were great at in the first place. They relied on writing notes and hand signals they'd used in the field. Phil tried not to ask too many questions, but Clint did admit he could hear slightly better than before, even if the ringing in his ears was still going strong.

Phil was scheduled for a series of meetings at Headquarters when Clint's hearing test was to take place. He danced around asking the other man if he wanted him there, but Clint always told him no. "I'll see you tonight," Phil said with an attempt at a small smile as he waved goodbye. Normally, he'd steal a quick kiss, too, but touching was apparently still off the table.

"What do you want to eat?" Clint asked.

Phil shook his head and pointed at the drawer brimming with takeout menus. "We can just order something." It was apparently the wrong thing to say since Clint's face fell. Not wanting to make anything else worse, Phil gave a small finger wave and made a break for the elevator. On the ride down to the parking garage of Stark Tower, he tried to figure out where this particular misstep had taken place. It wasn't like he was trying to keep Clint out of the kitchen; Phil just didn't want to add to the list of things Clint had to do today since his doctor's appointment could be fairly overwhelming.

He shoved down and compartmentalized his thoughts as he drove down to SHIELD headquarters. He absorbed himself in meeting after meeting just so the endless questions and what-if scenarios didn't drown his mind. Phil didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he was checking the time constantly, counting down the hours and then minutes until Clint was scheduled to go down to the medical floor of Stark Tower for his test.

He thumbed open the calendar on his phone and swiped until it brought up Natasha's schedule. She had the afternoon off, and Phil was willing to bet his life savings that even if Clint hadn't consented for her to be present, she'd be lurking nearby. He was half-tempted to text her for a status report when Fury called on him to answer a question during the meeintg. Phil was a good enough agent to be able to spout off the needed information without thinking too much about it, and then, he tried to ignore the one-eyed stare that lingered in his direction for the remainder of the afternoon.

It did, however, influence Phil to leave his phone alone. So it wasn't until after the meeting was over, an hour after Clint's scheduled appointment, that Phil saw two new emails in his inbox. He opened the one from Doctor Panetta first and tried to wrap his mind around the words within. While Clint's assumption that his hearing had improved was true, the hearing tests showed that he was incapable of hearing anything softer than around fifty to sixty decibels. According to Panetta's conclusion, the sound of conversation was roughly the lower end of Clint's hearing range now.

The second email Phil didn't even bother opening. He knew what its contents were simply by the subject line of the message:

_**Barton, Clinton F.: Field Eligibility Status—REVOKED**_

The tiny paperclip icon symbolized the forms Phil would have to fill out to prevent Clint from going on missions which had been the man's life for the last twelve years and the one place Clint felt truly comfortable and capable.

Phil locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He walked out of the conference room, ignored Sitwell calling his name, and kept moving until he was back in his and Clint's quarters. On the way there, his brain kept switching back and forth between two lines of thought. The first was wondering where Clint could work within SHIELD that would make him still feel valued and not let him grow bored; Phil wasn't really sure such a place existed. The second topic was making a list of all the sounds softer than regular conversation: the twang of a bow string, rustling of sheets, panting and gasps in the dark, soft chuckles, the sigh with a faint humming noise Nadia always gave as a sign that she was fully asleep—all things that, unless Tony and Bruce could work a miracle, Clint would never hear again.

Phil loudly called Clint's name when he entered their home, but didn't get a response. It took a minute of ducking in out of rooms until he spotted the other man on the balcony that overlooked the city. Clint had his forearms propped up on the railing, an unlabeled bottle containing a deep amber liquid dangling from his fingertips. Phil recognized the liquor; it was some homemade brew that Jasper had given them as prize for winning some bet Phil couldn't remember. What Phil could recall with agonizing detail was splitting a couple of shots two months back with Clint, the heady heat that flooded his body, and the way he could taste the drink on Clint's tongue.

He walked over to stand next to Clint and copied his posture. Phil stared at him until Clint looked over. "I'm sorry," he apologized loud enough that he hoped Clint could hear.

Clint shrugged in response. "It's fine."

"No, it's not. I—"

Clint sighed and shook his head. "I've stopped counting how many bones I've broken. I spend more days with a concussion than without. There are spots on my body that are completely numb from getting shot or falling out of buildings or who knows what. I'm thirty-seven and it hurts to get out of bed in the morning. My body's ruined. Might as well quit while I can still walk."

Phil wanted to argue, but he knew there was truth in Clint's words. He knew the story behind almost every injury and scar catalogued on the younger man's body, and as much as he didn't want to admit it right now, the last few days had shown him that maybe it was better for Clint to quit when most of him still existed then waiting until the day when Phil came back from a mission without Clint altogether.

It was a lesson they should have already learned when Phil had died on the Helicarrier right before the Battle of New York. And maybe Clint had, perhaps that was why he was able to reason with all of this, but Phil wasn't there mentally. Not yet, anyway. Unsure of what to do but positive the last thing Clint wanted was false words of reassurance, Phil reached over and snagged the bottle from Clint's fingers and downed two healthy gulps.


	5. Chapter 5

Phil wasn't expecting for Bruce to schedule a meeting so soon, but the day after the notification came down that Clint would no longer be allowed on field missions, there was a message to come to Tony's lab to discuss options.

Phil'd awoken with a hangover, something he rarely let himself be subjected to anymore, and judging from the way Clint was squinting at any source of even the faintest light, he wasn't in much better shape. They silently slugged their way through cereal and a couple mugs of coffee each before taking turns in the bathroom to shave and shower. The quiet in their home was too much; it grated on Phil's nerves. Their quarters were never quiet—Clint would be humming, the news would be on the television, Phil would be talking on the phone, their friends would be over to talk until the wee hours of the morning. But never was it this quiet.

Once they were both dressed and nodded at each other to signal they were both ready, they exited their quarters and entered the elevator to go down to the series of labs that Tony'd labeled _Candyland_ on the Stark Tower building schematics. They stood a foot apart as Coulson declared their destination for JARVIS. The distance between them—normally Clint would have (at least) his shoulder pressed up against Phil's—and the quiet caused Phil to reach his breaking point. Part of his brain laughed at that thought; a number of people had tried to break and bend Phil Coulson, but only Clint Barton was ever truly successful.

Phil called out for JARVIS to halt the elevator as he moved to stand in front of Clint. The other man sensed them coming to a stop, and his eyes fell to the floor. It stabbed Phil in the gut that this was now Clint's physical response to a conversation: avoiding eyes, ducking heads, crumpling in on himself. For the last few days, Phil had used the reaction as a means of self-punishment, but his heart couldn't take anymore. He reached out and lifted Clint's chin so they were looking eye to eye. "I'm sorry," he said loudly enough for Clint to hear. "I'm so sorry."

"'s my fault."

"No, it's not."

"Phil, I—"

But Phil wasn't in the mood to hear any more incorrect excuses from Clint's lips; he had a better plan involving them. Phil kissed him hard enough that the sensation started out as pain before drifting into something more pleasurable as he backed Clint against the wall of the elevator. The hand that was on Clint's chin slid around to the back of his neck while Phil's other arm wrapped around his waist and held his body tightly against his own. Clint resisted for a moment before giving in, both of them drowning in the need for touch that had gone absent for the last few days.

They remained tangled up in each other until the need to catch their breath was too overwhelming, and even then, they kept their foreheads resting against each other while using strong grips to hold themselves together. Phil kept his eyes tightly closed and whispered apology after apology against Clint's lips. Clint stopped him by coming in for another kiss, this one slower and gentler but still fiery. They broke apart once more and Clint ordered JARVIS to resume their path down to the research labs.

Phil smoothed out his suit while Clint straightened himself up, and just before the door opened, he reached over to take Clint's hand and gave it a quick squeeze before they walked out. When they entered the lab, Bruce greeted them with a smile while Tony snapped orders at JARVIS to finish some calibrations for tests the scientists wanted to run on Clint.

"Here," Bruce said as he handed Clint what looked like a set of headphones and mimed for him to put them on.

"What will that do?" Phil asked.

"Amplify noise," Bruce answered. "Think of it as a bullhorn. We'll run tests to specialize some hearing aids that will act as a tailored microphone to compensate for hearing loss as much as possible."

"I have to do more tests?" Clint said, now capable of hearing conversations around him. Phil recognized the amount of exhaustion he was trying to cover up in his voice.

"SHIELD medical sucks," Tony snarked from across the room. "My phone can run better tests than their diagnostic equipment."

"We'll use the data to build customized equipment—not just hearing aids, but custom add-ons for your gear," Bruce explained.

Phil felt his stomach twist. "Or how about we develop a procedure to rectify the damage?" He watched Bruce and Tony exchange hesitant looks.

"We'll see if Tony's equipment can pick up something SHIELD medical missed. But if it doesn't… There's not much we can do, and any procedure brings an incredibly high risk to only further the damage done."

Bruce's response wasn't satisfactory enough for Phil's liking, but he kept his opinions to himself for now. He turned to Clint to quietly ask, "You want me to stay?"

Clint shook his head. "You've got other stuff to do. I'll be fine. Unless you're into watching Tony poke and prod me with his equipment."

The joking tone of voice sounded correct, but Clint's smirk didn't reach his eyes. Phil didn't make a point of pushing Clint any further. Instead, he gave everyone a nod and requested that Bruce send him hourly updates and for Clint to let him know when the whole thing was over.

Phil elected to work from the office in his quarters once again since the only thing on his schedule was a video conference with Maria, who was in Moscow, but the Assistant Director's schedule had changed and their meeting was delayed until the following afternoon. Before he could check his phone again, JARVIS alerted him to Jasper's presence at the door. Phil considered telling the artificial intelligence to let the agent know he wasn't home, but fat lot of good that would do. Jasper was a nosy shit and probably knew exactly where Phil was at all times. He'd gotten a little clingy after what everyone referred to as Phil's trip to Tahiti—not as bad as Clint had been in the beginning, but still.

Phil rose from his desk with a sigh, but didn't get to the door soon enough since he could hear Jasper yell, "Open up, asshole, I know you're in there." He placed his palm against the door sensor and the entrance to their quarters hissed open to reveal Jasper standing there, slightly damp and cradling a brown, grease-stained paper bag. Phil didn't even bother with a greeting—at least, nothing more than waving his friend inside.

"I stood in the rain to bring you delicious greasyness," Jasper prattled as he walked around Phil and began pulling Styrofoam containers out of the bag and setting them out on the table. "This is the kind of friend I am. You know who's not a good friend? You."

Phil didn't respond, just popped the lid on the container closest to him. It opened to reveal a juicy burger and greasy fries from a diner he and Jasper visited at least a couple times a month. "Extra pickles?"

"Yes. Because, as previously stated, I'm a good friend and I know how you like your food."

"Are you here to bring me lunch or to chew my ass out?" Phil asked dryly before stuffing a few fries into his mouth.

"I'm multitasking, shut up." Jasper paused to take a slurp of his chocolate and strawberry milkshake. He always did a little harmless flirting with the waitress at the counter to earn the special order. "Are you going to be like a soap opera now? You and Barton? Because let me tell you, ain't nobody got time for that."

"You love soap operas, so what's your complaint?"

"My wife loves soap operas," Jasper clarified while pointing his burger at Phil. "And I love my wife and only get about three hours a week alone with her, and if she wants to spend that time watching soap operas, so be it. She gets very grateful about it later," he finished with a smirk.

Phil rolled his eyes and swallowed a mouthful of burger before asking, "How are Anne and the girls?"

"Fine. Anniversary's next month. Girls are finally old enough to be left by themselves for a few hours."

"You're actually okay with that?" Phil prodded. He'd heard Jasper lament more times than he could remember about how much he hated how his little girls were no longer little girls.

"If it means Anne and I can sneak out to eat dinner at a place that doesn't have a kid's menu, I'm all for it." He chewed on his burger a moment while eying Phil. "We gonna talk about this or you seriously just going to pretend that everything is hunky-dory?"

"Talk about what?"

Jasper rolled his eyes. "How you and Barton are in Angst City and can't find a map to make your way out."

Phil shot him a dirty look. "That's none of your business."

"It's always none of my business. Or classified. Or whatever bullshit you need to spew to cover up the fact that you're in over your head but too damn stubborn to ask for help. And as someone who helped put Humpty Dumpty back together while you were playing dead or whatever—and you know Barton was barely functional while you were gone—I do not want to lose what little free time I have with my family to try and patch up you idiots."

He felt his eyebrows raise slightly at the diatribe. "Geez, Jasper, tell me how you really feel." Jasper made no move to respond, just sat back in his chair and stared waiting for details. Phil fought back a sigh, but he did push away his partially-eaten lunch with a grimace. "I don't know what you want me to say," he admitted quietly.

"How about you start with telling me whether or not you're okay?"

Phil swallowed his instinctual answer to lie and say everything was fine, because it obviously wasn't. Not to someone like Jasper. They'd known each other for over fifteen years, seen action both as soldiers in the army and as SHIELD agents, Phil had stood up with Jasper at his wedding, and Jasper had guarded Phil's back more than just about anyone. "No, I'm not okay," he answered softly.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

A small, bitter huff of air escaped Phil. "Do about it? There's nothing I can do to fix this. Nothing. And it's my fault."

"You paid some guy to use sonic waves to piss everyone off so he could try and take over the world?"

"No."

"Then not your fault."

Phil's jaw clamped down as he felt his temper spike. There was no way this situation was as easy as Jasper was making it out to be. He felt some sharp retort form on his tongue, but it was halted by the ding of his cell phone alerting him to a new text message. After he read Bruce's words, his eyes slid shut in defeat and he tossed the phone onto the table carelessly, nearly knocking over Jasper's milkshake.

"What is it?" his friend asked.

"Banner and Stark don't think they can do anything to reverse the damage done to Clint's hearing."

He heard Jasper's suit rustle as the agent sat up in his seat. "Yeah, but you kind of knew that going into things, right?"

He should have. Phil'd attained the level of senior agent and his clearance code because he could see the whole picture in front of him and how all the individual pieces moved. But this—this neon flashing light of doom—he tried to ignore it with all his might. That tactic wasn't working.

"What's their plan?" Jasper asked.

Phil shrugged as he reopened his eyes, but kept his focus on his hands in his lap. "They talked about hearing aids and modifying his equipment, not that the latter will make much of a difference."

Jasper gave a small, sad nod. "Heard about his field status being revoked." He paused to lean forward. "But that doesn't mean it's the end of the world."

"It is for him."

"You don't know that. How many times have we bitched about junior agents not having the proper training they should? You know he'd be amazing at that. Or if not, then he could always—"

"Thanks for lunch," Phil replied brusquely as he closed the lid on the Styrofoam container, most of the food still inside, and stood to stash it in the fridge.

He felt Jasper's eyes trail his movement through the open layout of the apartment. "Don't do this, Phil."

"Do what?"

"Shut us out. We're trying to help you. You know I'm going to be the nicest one about it. If you ignore me, you're only going to have to deal with the likes of Romanoff, Hill, and Fury."

His warning caused Phil's mind to flash back to the previous December when Clint had sat on the couch with a four-month-old Nadia curled up against him as he read to her about Ebenezer Scrooge and his three ghosts of various Christmases. He clung to the warmth and love in the mental image as an attempt to soothe the ever-growing knot of tension in his neck and shoulders.

"They're wrapping up testing," Phil informed him. "I should get down there. Thanks for lunch."

They walked out the door and into the elevator in silence once Jasper cleaned up his things. When Phil was about to walk off onto the floor where the labs resided, Jasper called his name. "Please talk to someone. Anyone. Don't make them force into you psych visits. You know that isn't going to look good right now."

Phil didn't need the reminder that he would be more than likely put under investigation; it was one of several thoughts constantly dogging his mind. He didn't respond to Jasper's plea, just kept walking.

When he stepped into the lab, Clint gave him a nod. "Was just getting ready to text you."

"You okay?"

The other man shrugged. "'Bout as I expected."

"We should have customized hearing aids ready by morning," Bruce informed them.

Phil nodded. "And you'll rerun his test results to make sure something can't be done to fix things?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped slightly at the request. "Phil, I promise you, we've looked at—"

"Of course," Tony interrupted. "We'll look at everything again, call in a few people—no names mentioned for the patient, of course—if need be."

"Thank you." He placed his hand on Clint's back and guided him out of the lab and back to the elevator. Once they were inside, his eyes caught on something plastic and flesh-toned in the other man's ear.

"Temps," Clint explained. "They can mostly do the job in the meantime."

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugged. "Headache's finally gone. Wish the ringing would do the same." Phil looked at him expectantly, waiting for more than just surface details. Clint's gaze turned to his boots. "I don't know, Phil. Still trying to process, I guess."

They spent the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening doing things on their own while in the same room. Phil continued on his endless supply of paperwork while Clint set about cleaning his weaponry. They both knew he wouldn't need it anytime soon, and they both realized the task for what it was—Clint's need to stay busy so he wouldn't have time to think about what'd happened. Same reason Phil drowned himself in paperwork.

Clint had just put away his sniper rifle when JARVIS alerted them that they had guests. The door opened to reveal Steve holding Nadia, black diaper bag slung over his shoulder. "It's Tuesday," he told Phil in a gentle reminder. "If you guys don't want to take her tonight, it's fine. I know you've got a lot going on."

Phil mentally cursed himself for forgetting what night of the week it was. They'd had a standing tradition to take Nadia for a few hours every Tuesday evening since she was about three months old so Steve and Natasha could have some time to themselves. "Of course, we'll take her," Phil answered as he rose from the chair and walked over to scoop the eight-month-old from her father's arms.

"We won't be gone long, just going to take a ride around town on the bike."

Phil waited for a witty comeback from Clint regarding other riding plans Steve and Natasha probably had for the evening, but it didn't happen.

Steve looked at Phil after his eyes flickered over to where Clint sat in an overstuffed armchair; apparently, Phil wasn't the only one waiting for a retort. "Can he…?"

"I read you, Cap," Clint answered for himself as he rose from his seat.

"I want you to know," Steve started with his attention focused solely on Clint and raising his voice slightly, "I spoke to Director Fury today. The team is willing to do everything we can to keep you with us."

Clint gave a small, humble nod. "Appreciate it, but I don't want you guys to have to constantly watch my back. It's not fair to you."

Steve's shoulders drew back, a commanding stance he probably didn't realize he adopted whenever he was about to spout some speech. "It's not fair to you either. No one has better eyes or instincts than you do out there. We'd suffer without you."

"What did Fury say about it?" Phil asked as Nadia wriggled in his grasp. He ran a hand up and down her back, and she quickly settled against his side.

"He said he'd want to run some drills when you felt ready," Steve answered in Clint's direction. "If you want to stay on the team, we'll fight tooth and nail to keep you there."

"Thanks," Clint quietly replied.

Steve nodded before leaning in to give Nadia a kiss on her chubby cheeks. "See you in a bit, Bug. Two hours okay?" he asked of Phil.

"That's fine."

He gave a small smile before his eyes caught on the hearing aids in Clint's ears. "She's going to try and grab those, just so you know," he warned with an apologetic grimace.

"I've got fast hands," Clint said with a shrug. "It'll be fine."

Once Steve left the apartment, the two men remained rooted in place. Recently, Clint's favorite game was to chase Nadia around their home on his hands and knees; the girl would squeal and scream with delight while she crawled at an impressive speed. But today, Clint seemed more content to stare off into the distance.

"I need to change before she spits up on my suit. Can you take her?" Phil asked.

There was a slight hesitation to his movements before he reached out. Nadia practically flung herself into his arms. The action brought the smallest of grins to his face, the first Phil'd seen in days.

He placed Nadia's diaper bag on the floor before making his way into the bedroom. He was surprised to hear Clint on his heels. "You sure you're okay?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I don't know what these things are capable of," Clint answered in reference to his hearing aids, "and you know how she can go into stealth mode." Phil nodded. Nadia, a genetic clone of Natasha with the exception of bio-enhancements, already knew how to silently move around and slip out from under watchful eyes of her caretakers.

As they entered the bedroom, Clint fell back onto the bed with Nadia held to his chest. She smiled and cooed at the motion and immediately began crawling over Clint and around the mattress as soon as she was free. Whenever she got too close to the edge for his comfort, Clint would grab hold and drag her back to the middle of the bed. "She eat?" he asked as he pulled her back for the second time.

"Think so," Phil answered as he shrugged on a worn t-shirt from his Rangers days and a pair of sweatpants. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I made some chili while you were in meetings yesterday. It should be good by now."

Phil fought an eye roll at Clint's rule that chili had to set for a day before it could be eaten. He'd try to pass it off as some carnie rule, but Phil'd never known any other circus performers to verify the truth in the belief.

The three of them moved out into the kitchen. Clint manned the stove as he reheated the spicy dinner, Phil leaned his hip against the counter, and Nadia began crawling laps around the kitchen island. "Think she'll get tired before this is ready?" Phil asked.

"I'm not stupid enough to place any bets against the Romanoff stamina."

Each time the girl passed Clint on her circular path, she'd reach over and slap the top of his boot and then crawl away squealing. On her third lap, Clint ducked down and quickly snatched her up into his arms. She squirmed and let out a yell for getting caught but after a few seconds settled on his hip. Just as her father predicted, her blue eyes locked onto the new toys in Clint's ears and he was soon swatting at chubby fingers while angling his body so Nadia was kept away from the stove as he stirred the pot of chili.

"Here," Phil said as he placed a hand on Clint's unoccupied hip. "I know how to stir."

Clint took a couple steps back as he caught both of Nadia's hands in his own. He held them to his chest while placing a kiss in her red curls. The baby rested her head against his shoulder and managed to pull one hand free so she could suck her thumb. Clint chuckled and nuzzled his nose against her forehead.

Phil felt something snap inside of him at the sight. For an instant it felt like everything was back to normal, that the hell of the last few days was just some night terror and not a new way of life. He also felt irrationally jealous of an eight-month-old, because Nadia had no issue whatsoever with snuggling up against Clint, and he had no problem returning the sentiment.

Of their own volition, Phil's fingers reached out to snag the hem of Clint's t-shirt. Taking lead from Nadia, Phil pulled him close and rested his forehead against Clint's. He felt his shoulders relax he breathed in familiar scents—Clint's body wash, Nadia's baby smell, the spiciness of chili from the stove. It all smelled like home, and Phil felt himself drowning in the comfort of it.


End file.
